


The Sushi Experiment

by WatsonsStressBall



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Time, Friends to Lovers, In which John is a naked sushi model, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-07
Updated: 2013-11-07
Packaged: 2017-12-31 17:42:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1034516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WatsonsStressBall/pseuds/WatsonsStressBall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock enlists John's help for an experiment. John is right to be suspicious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sushi Experiment

It had been a long day at the surgery again, and John was tired. Seemed like every time school started up in the fall, a wave of colds, flu, and other infectious diseases would sweep through London, prompting frazzled, tired, and half-sick parents to besiege the phone lines and fill the waiting rooms. Now he trudged from the Tube station through the chilly drizzle, wanting nothing more than a hot cuppa, a hot shower, and his warm bed. Tomorrow would be his day off, and he planned to start off with a bit of a lie-in, then he was meeting Mike Stamford for lunch. After that he figured he'd do a little work on his blog, if he and Sherlock didn't have a case on. Oh, and a trip to Tesco should be on the list -- he was pretty sure they were low on milk at least, and the day Sherlock went to get it might as well be the day John Watson won the lottery. Resignedly, he burrowed deeper into his jacket and started mentally composing a grocery list.

John's plans, as usual, went out the window shortly after he closed the door to 221B and hung up his damp jacket.

"Excellent," said Sherlock, bounding out from the kitchen in...an apron? "Quickly, now, John, out of these things and into the shower, hurry up, I've an important experiment, and it took you forever to get here." He grabbed John by the elbow, towing him toward the bathroom, and actually started in on John's belt buckle with his other hand in his eagerness when John, flabbergasted, batted his hand away.

"What the hell, Sherlock!" John exclaimed. He tried to back away from the bathroom, but Sherlock got behind him and started pushing him through the doorway.

"Hurry UP, John, no time to lose, the temperature must be rigidly controlled or this experiment will be useless, whatever took you so long? Into the shower with you, come on!" Sherlock kicked the bathroom door shut behind them, reached over and flipped the shower on with one hand, and immediately tried to pull the hem of John's jumper up and over John's head. John fought back as best he could despite being tangled in wool, and as a result the pair of them nearly toppled into the tub. The soles of their shoes squeaked on the tiled floor as Sherlock managed to spin John around, yanking the jumper over John's head, and attacked John's belt buckle once more, getting so far as to open it before John freed himself from the jumper and gained the upper hand, shoving Sherlock back against the sink. An electric razor clattered to the ground as Sherlock latched on to the edge of the sink for balance, and John stopped to grab his loosened belt, gripping it defensively closed about his waist.

"Sherlock," said John then, "Will you just tell me what the ACTUAL BLOODY HELL this is all about." He was definitely pissed off now, his hair stuck up in every direction, his shirt was half-untucked, and he discovered belatedly that he was trying to hold Sherlock at bay with a nail brush.

"Honestly, John," replied Sherlock, "certainly by now even you should have figured it out, I am in urgent need of your assistance for an experiment, and as you normally shower after a day at the surgery anyway, I would not have expected this level of resistance from you. Do please take those things off and get into the shower at once, you will see as soon as you get out, but I need you to be showered and ready in under five minutes or all my preparation will be wasted."

John stared at him. Yes, all right, he had been looking forward to a hot shower, but he was suspicious. Sherlock seemed altogether too eager by half, and that never boded well.

I'm such a pushover, he thought, as he started unbuttoning his shirt. It was a good thing he didn't notice Sherlock's anticipatory smile.

*****

Several minutes into John's shower, the water suddenly ran cold. With a yelp, John reached to turn off the spray, but Sherlock banged on the bathroom door.

"You need to stay under the cold water for at least forty-five seconds, John," called Sherlock.

John spluttered, shivering. "What...dammit, Sherlock, I'm freezing!"

"Thirty-five more seconds, John!" yelled Sherlock.

John's teeth chattered uncontrollably as he stood under the icy spray and furiously imagined all of the ways he could get Sherlock back for this.

*****

Still shivering from head to toe, John stepped out of the bathroom in his terry robe and an extra towel around his shoulders for warmth. "Sherlock," he started, but the taller man seized the towel and flung it away, then steered John toward the kitchen.

"Good, excellent," said Sherlock, "we've no time to lose, robe off and up on the table, John."

Eyes wide, John clutched the robe more tightly about him and stared wildly around the kitchen.

The table, for once, was spotless and covered with a plastic tablecloth. A small cushion lay at one end ("for my head?" wondered John, feeling more than a little dazed), but it was the rest of the kitchen that had John speechless.

Every plastic-covered surface was covered in sushi. There were tuna rolls next to the refrigerator and sashimi by the sink. A fair-sized rice cooker stood open on the counter, and seaweed adorned the area that was usually dedicated to Sherlock's laboratory apparatus.

"Sherlock," said John weakly, "...what...?"

In exasperation, Sherlock grabbed John's robe and pulled it off. Too late, John tried to grab for it, only to find himself being hauled bodily across the kitchen.

"Wait, stop," John protested, trying in vain to cover himself and fight off Sherlock, but he couldn't do both, and Sherlock merely picked him up and deposited him, flailing, onto the table. He pushed John down with one hand on his chest and pulled the cushion into position under John's head. John crossed his legs, then thinking better of it, called up one last spark of defiance and crossed his arms pointedly over his chest.

"I must apologize, John," said Sherlock then, "I am sure you have questions..." his eyes wandered down to John's crotch, and his lips twitched in an abortive smirk, "...and I am sure that you are cold. Let me explain while I complete my preparations."

John bristled, but remained quiet.

Sherlock donned a pair of food-service gloves, picked up a roll of plastic wrap, and said to John, "Have you ever heard of the practice of _nyotaimori_? Or in this case... _nantaimori_?"

*****

John's chest was covered in plastic wrap, and Sherlock had thoughtfully provided a large paper fan to cover his private parts, as Sherlock continued his preparations.

"Nyotaimori," explained Sherlock, "is the Japanese practice of 'body sushi', serving sushi on the nude form of a woman. Or in this case, a man. There has been a case involving a branch of the Yakuza here in London in which the middle-aged business rival of a prominent Japanese crime lord fell ill after a party and died. The Yard suspects poison, but no known toxins were discovered during the autopsy; and the prime suspect claims that the victim may have contracted salmonella caused by eating sushi that had risen too high in temperature, being served on a naked sushi model." Here, Sherlock produced a thermometer, which John eyed with some alarm. "This," said Sherlock, "is where you come in."

"Please tell me that's an oral thermometer," said John.

Sherlock smirked. "Of course, John, whatever kind did you think I'd be using? Open your mouth, please, and hold this while I place the sushi. We will, of course, need to take temperature readings, both of you and of the sushi, every fifteen minutes."

John lay as still as he could as Sherlock began delicately covering him with sushi. He was still cold and tried not to shiver. When the thermometer went off, Sherlock took it and noted the reading ("Barely below normal, good," said Sherlock), then measured the temperature of some of the sushi that was sitting on his abdomen. John hoped he wouldn't get hypothermia.

"Isn't it a problem that I probably have a different body composition than the women at the party did?" John wondered. He still couldn't believe this was really happening, or that he was actually going along with this; yet here he was, lying naked on a cold, hard table and covered in raw fish, rice, and plastic wrap, while his mad genius flatmate methodically examined every inch of his body and took notes.

"Oh, it's a minor point," said Sherlock, "I will adjust for it when I do the final analysis. The conditions otherwise should be reasonably close -- the temperature of the surrounding environment, your basal body temperature, the mass of the sushi -- yes, it should be good enough. I've even gone so far as to obtain the same brand of plastic wrap, must control for the thickness and composition of that layer, after all."

"And how long do I have to stay here?" asked John.

"I think four hours ought to do it," said Sherlock offhandedly, repositioning a piece of unagi.

"What the -- FOUR HOURS?!" shouted John.

"Yes, that should be about right, and do please be quiet John, the sushi models were still and quiet throughout, don't want to raise your body temperature by getting too excited."

"Oh, for the love of -- Sherlock --"

"John, please," said Sherlock, "we must adhere to the scientific process. True criminal justice demands no less."

"Why can't YOU lie here and I'll do the measurements?" said John, gritting his teeth.

"Oh, John," Sherlock sighed. "Please. You do not have the necessary scientific background, nor do you completely understand the parameters of this experiment. I must anticipate any and all possible outcomes. You would be woefully unprepared for such an undertaking. No, John, just lie still and relax, I will tackle the science."

John sighed and tried to think warm thoughts.

*****

He had actually begun to fall into an uncomfortable doze when Sherlock prodded him awake. "Come on, John, the sushi models all had a fifteen-minute break halfway through; in order to adhere to the original conditions, I need you to get up and move around for a bit." 

John glanced down and realized the only thing protecting his modesty was a ridiculous paper fan, the sushi having been temporarily relocated. Somehow, he'd actually managed to forget that he was naked before, but now...there was no avoiding it. Here he was, in the buff in his kitchen, every inch of his middle-aged, scarred body on display, in front of his brilliant and (let's face it) strangely attractive flatmate. He could feel his face flushing, and somehow that only made him more annoyed. He sat up gingerly, torn between holding the fan in place and setting the fan aside in a display of bravado and nonchalance he was far from feeling. He felt unreasonably impatient with himself. For God's sake, I was in the army, he thought, and put the fan on the table and hopped down, before he could change his mind. "Sherlock?" he said, a little too quickly, "where's my robe?"

"Oh, that?" said Sherlock, now busy scribbling in another notebook, "I put it in the laundry hamper. Just us men here, don't worry about it," he added airily.

John felt even more flustered, but tried to act like he didn't care. Probably Sherlock was far above such trivial concerns as clothing, anyway. "I suppose it would be too much for me to ask for tea then?" John said then, with irritation.

"Not at all," said Sherlock, "you've thirteen minutes, the models were permitted refreshment during that time, tea should be perfectly allowable."

At least John was getting one thing he wanted this evening. Feeling distinctly nettled, he looked for the kettle, found it in the oven, pulled it out, filled it, and plugged it in. He felt his mood lightening as he rummaged through the cabinets for a mug. Tea really could solve everything, he thought...and then turned to find Sherlock hovering inches behind him. John squeaked, nearly dropped the mug, and tried to back away, only to run into the counter behind him. "Agh--Sherlock--what--" he managed, and couldn't be bothered to care that he'd only managed actual English best out of three.

"John," intoned Sherlock, "I don't know whether you have noticed..."

"W-what?" stuttered John, hastily scanning for the exits. Clothing or no...

"It's just that there is a matter that has come to my attention. Perhaps you are aware of it."

John's heart thundered in his chest. Oh, God, he thought frantically, what does he want now? "I-I don't..." 

He was horribly aware of his nakedness, felt all the more exposed by Sherlock's extreme proximity, and tried to look anywhere but at that neck, those plush lips.

"You see," murmured Sherlock, and as John shivered, "we are out of milk," Sherlock finished. He then thrust a box of PG Tips into John's hands, gave John a tiny, enigmatic smile, and stalked back to his notebook.

The kettle began to whistle, and John barely heard it. Maybe whiskey would be more appropriate, after all.

*****

"Here we go, John," Sherlock announced, "we are in the home stretch, as it were. All relaxed now? Ready to get back to it?" He patted the table invitingly.

If John had been relaxed before, he was instantly on alert now that Sherlock was so eager to get started. He could see no further reason to delay, however, so he warily walked over, hoisted himself to the table, and lay down obediently. Sherlock looked over his nude body with approval, put on a fresh pair of gloves, gave John back his pathetic paper fan, and began to redeploy the plastic wrap. For his part, John put the fan back into position and lay as still as he could, accepting the thermometer meekly and looking forward to the end of this ridiculous exercise.

This time, however, was a little different. After noting down John's temperature, Sherlock walked over to the refrigerator and pulled out a squeeze bottle, then approached the table.

"What is that?" asked John cautiously, not sure he really wanted to know.

"Relax," came the response. "It's just a creamy wasabi sauce. Some of the models were decorated with sauce into which guests could dip their food. The sauce was refreshed after the break, of course, but the uneaten sushi was merely replaced, which is why we're doing it this way." Sherlock began busily drawing squiggles and abstract designs on John's body with the sauce. It was cold, and John resisted the temptation to squirm.

God, if anyone caught wind of this...well, they'd certainly be talking now, wouldn't they?

"What would you like to do when this is over?" inquired Sherlock, now delicately doodling a flower around John's left nipple.

"I...uh..." John managed, trying not to think of what Sherlock was doing.

"You did not have dinner after your shift at the surgery, perhaps you might be interested in some takeaway? Thai, maybe? True, there is always the sushi, but it is poor form to eat one's experimental components, I feel." Sherlock moved over to John's right nipple, and John realized to his horror that his body was beginning to take an unwanted interest in the proceedings. His mind whirled, and he tried frantically to think of something else, anything else.

"Uh, Thai, yeah, ok," said John. Margaret Thatcher, he thought almost hysterically. Those ugly poisonous fish you find in the Thames lately, I think I saw a news report on telly about that. Not thinking about your ridiculously attractive flatmate drawing designs on your naked body in wasabi sauce. Oh God...

Sherlock moved his attention down toward John's navel, and the paper fan began to slide. No no no...

"Oh, I missed a spot," John heard, and Sherlock moved up to place more sauce at the notch at the base of John's neck. John tried not to whimper as his cock twitched and the fan slid a little further.

This was not happening.

Except that it was. As Sherlock moved his attention down John's body, John tried furiously to resist his own burgeoning arousal; but the harder he fought it, the worse it got, and in no time, the paper fan that was his only shield fell and drifted pathetically to the table, then the floor...revealing John's erection in its full, rosy glory. John squeezed his eyes shut in mortification.

The cold application of sauce to his plastic-wrapped torso stopped suddenly.

"John," said Sherlock.

John swallowed, unwilling to open his eyes. "Sherlock," he said. His voice did not sound quite right.

There was a low baritone sigh. "John," said Sherlock again. "John, open your eyes and look at me."

Reluctantly, John opened his eyes, cheeks flaming, and stared up at his infuriating, strangely beautiful (and how long had he thought that?) flatmate.

Sherlock regarded him with his changeable eyes fixed on his, and it seemed to John then that the younger man's heart shone through those eyes in a way that he'd never seen before. Those eyes, usually so cold and dispassionate, showed a depth of feeling that astonished and moved him. 

John opened his mouth to speak, and found he had no idea what to say. "I-- I don't understand," he heard himself say at last.

"Don't you? John? Can you really not see it, when nearly everyone else does?"

John looked into Sherlock's face, and felt his heart give a startling thump in his chest.

"What-- what happened to 'I consider myself married to my work'?"

"John. You must know by now that you are essential to my work. I-- I find that it is...easier...with you. More...it is a joy and a privilege to share the Work with you. And I think...I would like to have...more."

Was that a hint of color on Sherlock's pale cheeks?

John swallowed. "I'm not gay, Sherlock."

Sherlock started, and his expression shuttered. He started to say something, then closed his mouth as John continued. "I'm not gay...but you...there is something about you. About us." John licked his lips. "For you, perhaps...I think I can make an exception."

Sherlock stared into John's face, then suddenly bent and kissed John, full on the mouth. Startled, John froze for a moment, but as the realization began to dawn on him, he began to respond. 

Oh my God, he thought. I'm kissing Sherlock...actually kissing Sherlock.

Sherlock's lips were warm and soft, far softer than any man's lips had a right to be. John reached up and finally, finally tangled his fingers into soft, dark curls. He heard a low moan and felt his cock jump in response, and he tried to sit up, trying to get more contact in any way possible. Sherlock held John's face then in both hands as if it were the most precious thing in the world, and John was stunned to realize how much he had wanted this...wanted more.

Sherlock stopped kissing John then and peeled the plastic wrap away from John's torso. John looked down and noticed there was still a little bit of wasabi on one arm, and he suspected, on his neck.

Sherlock noticed as well, gazing unflinchingly at John's body, and then bent and licked the sauce off John's neck.

Goosebumps shot up John's arms and legs, and he feared he might come on the spot. Sherlock bent close, so close that John could feel the heat of his body, and licked a little more of the sauce off John's arm, then returned to John's mouth.

John could taste the spice on Sherlock's tongue, and he fought suddenly for control of his over-eager body. He wanted to tear the apron off Sherlock's lithe frame, wanted to pull open that tight shirt and touch him everywhere. He slid one hand under the apron and found his way under the waistband of Sherlock's trousers, and Sherlock made a noise that John wanted to record and keep forever. He sat up fully then and swung his legs over the side of the table, and Sherlock moved to stand between them. John could feel the fabric of Sherlock's clothing against his own bare skin, could feel Sherlock's large hands skimming over his face, through his hair, down his back, running voraciously over his body. He had never felt so wanted, and he felt almost dizzy with desire.

Sherlock's body was different from a woman's, all angles, flat planes and wiry muscles. John had an instant of doubt when he reached down the front of Sherlock's trousers and felt the warm bulge there, with the dampness of pre-come already spreading across the front of Sherlock's pants. I've never been with a man before, he thought, and suddenly tensed. He wanted this, but he was uncertain about Sherlock's expectations and whether he'd be able to meet them. What if he wants me to suck him off? he wondered, or what if he wants to penetrate me? Can I do that? I've never...would I be able to? For him? He suddenly felt a fit of nerves explode in his stomach, even as he felt a bolt of unexpected lust at the thought of taking Sherlock's cock into his mouth, Sherlock's fingers wound into his hair, nose buried in what would surely be a thatch of dark curls at Sherlock's crotch... His mouth watered, and he was rocked by conflicting emotions.

Sherlock sensed his hesitation, and it wasn't difficult to deduce the reason. He pulled back and held John gently by the shoulders...those strong shoulders, left one marked by the bullet that had irrevocably changed John's body and his life, sending him home to London...and to Sherlock. 

John tried to breathe steadily through his nose as his heart pounded, and he looked up again, into Sherlock's face...now open and vulnerable, and somehow impossibly young. He tried to smile.

"So," he said. His voice was low and rough, and he cleared his throat. "This is...an unusual situation for me," he continued, lamely. He was sitting naked in a kitchen full of sushi, having just been snogged silly by his male flatmate...yeah, "unusual" did not begin to describe the evening so far, he thought.

Sherlock's hair was disheveled, and his apron was askew. His eyes were bright and his cheeks slightly flushed, but they pinkened further as he replied, "I...must admit I had hoped...but this outcome, I, I never thought. John...I...I know you think yourself inexperienced..." he trailed off.

John's eyes widened.

"Sherlock," he started, and found himself at a loss. He immediately vetoed the first three things that came to mind, and went with, "I've never...with a man. Never, ANYTHING, with a man. Have you -- have you ever, uh. With a man? Or...?"

Sherlock stared at him, and any walls, any awkwardness John still felt melted away. "Never?" he whispered. "Never, with...anyone? Ever?"

He'd wondered, of course he'd wondered, but it seemed impossible...Sherlock might have been socially inept, but he was so fantastically beautiful, it was hard to imagine that he'd never had a relationship, even a fling, never allowed anyone else into his heart...or his body. John felt a pang at the thought of Sherlock's solitary life and ached then to show him how wonderful it could be to take pleasure in another person. He began to imagine what it would be like, teaching Sherlock ways to please him, exploring each other and finding new ways to enjoy each other, and he felt a strange, almost protective anticipation.

Sherlock did not need to answer. He could see the conclusion John was drawing, could almost read the progress of John's thoughts on his expressive face, and shivered as he saw John's demeanor change from nervous, to tentative, to protective, and finally, to decisive. He stepped back, and John hopped down from the table and held out his hand.

"OK, then," said John. "Would you like to try? With me? And maybe...we can learn a few things. Together."

*****

They sat on the edge of Sherlock's bed, knees almost touching, and John took Sherlock's hand once more.

"How..." He wasn't sure where to begin, and tried again. "Do you want to talk some more first? Or...what would you like to do?"

Sherlock looked mutely at John, then leaned forward and wrapped his arms around him, crumpling his body bizarrely to fit his head against John's bare chest, beneath John's chin.

John tentatively petted the unruly curls. Sherlock's hair was so soft and smelled of expensive shampoo, and God, how long had he wanted to do this? He bent his head slightly and kissed the crown of Sherlock's head, and he could swear Sherlock rumbled in response, like a giant cat. He wrapped one arm around Sherlock's back, feeling the warmth through the taller man's thin shirt, and wanted to be closer. He moved one hand beneath Sherlock's chin then, nudged Sherlock's head up, and pressed his lips to Sherlock's own.

Sherlock responded, opening his mouth to John's questing tongue, and pressing John backward until he lay across Sherlock's bed, and Sherlock immediately moved to lie on top of him. John could feel the buttons of Sherlock's shirt pressing into the bare skin of his chest and the warm weight of Sherlock's body on his, and felt his cock begin to stiffen once more. He reached down Sherlock's back then with one hand, untying the apron; with the other, he pulled the apron over Sherlock's head and impatiently bundled it up and threw it to the floor. Sherlock's hands were all over him, on his jaw, his neck, his chest, his hips, reaching under him to grope his bare arse, and John moaned and rocked upward into Sherlock's growing erection. He reached up then and began to unbutton Sherlock's shirt, and Sherlock immediately stopped what he was doing to assist. He unbuttoned his shirt, pushing it down off his shoulders, exposing a pale chest lightly dusted with hair, and continued undressing, opening his fly and pushing off trousers, pants, and socks, dropping them carelessly to the floor.

John looked down the length of Sherlock's body and marveled at his perfect skin, the wiry muscles of his torso and arms, and his cock, slender and long like the rest of Sherlock, and beaded with pre-come. Unable to resist, John reached out and touched Sherlock's cock, thumbing across the slit, then sliding his hand around his girth and giving it a single stroke from root to tip.

Sherlock moaned and bit his lip, then reached out for John, mouthing over his neck, his collarbones, moving down to tongue at one nipple, then the other, and John could barely breathe for want. He bucked his hips upward into Sherlock's warm body, searching for friction, any way he could get it. He reached up then, licked his hand, and brought it back down to hold their twin erections together; Sherlock let out his breath in an explosive hiss.

John could not get enough of the feeling of Sherlock's body against his, the almost pained expression of ecstasy on his face, framed by curls like a dark halo, and he gritted his teeth as he tried to hold on, feeling pleasure coiling low in his belly, his balls drawing up, trying to find release even as he fought to resist.

Suddenly Sherlock cried out desperately, "Oh, God, please, John--!" and thrust hard, once, twice more, and then he was coming, pulsing warm over John's hand. Another few strokes and John was there too, crying out into Sherlock's shoulder, gripping Sherlock's hip tightly with his other hand until the shuddering slowed and then stopped.

They rested then for a moment, panting together, sweaty and sated. Sherlock rolled off of John to flop bonelessly on the duvet.

"We should shower," John murmured, "or at least clean up a bit."

"Mmm."

John shook his head, stood and walked to the bathroom for a couple of clean flannels. He wet one at the sink and thought.

Several hours ago, he had been cold and damp, and Sherlock had dragged him in here. They'd never finished the experiment, he realized. 

He wiped himself up, then walked back to Sherlock's bedroom with the other damp flannel. He placed the flannel on Sherlock's chest and sat back down on the edge of the bed. He hated to broach the subject, but he had to know.

"Sherlock," he said.

Sherlock didn't move, even to put the flannel to use. John prodded his arm with a couple of fingers and tried again.

"Sherlock!"

"Mm. John."

"Um. Sherlock. So. This...this was wonderful. Really, really wonderful. I've, you know, wanted this. For a while, I think. But it was hard to admit it to myself. And then, too, I, well. I didn't think you, you would. Um. That you could return my feelings. So. I just, I'm glad. Happy. Thank you."

Sherlock looked over at him then, and gave John a small, genuine smile.

He wished he could stop there, but... "I have to ask, though. We, we didn't finish the experiment. It seemed pretty important, and you put a lot of effort into setting it up and all. So. What are we going to do now?"

Sherlock's smile widened. "Nothing. Well, not unless you want to."

John wasn't sure he'd heard right. "I'm sorry?"

"The experiment was a success, John. A resounding success, I'm happy to say, as is fairly unusual in science, but all the more pleasing for that."

"I don't understand."

Sherlock sighed. "Oh, John. Dear, guileless John. Do you not see? You were the case."

John gaped at him. "But, but...the Yakuza? The salmonella?"

"A plausible cover story. I had hoped for a while now that you might be amenable to taking our relationship, as one might say, to the next level. I desired it, and I suspected that you might as well. But you were self-conscious, so insistent that you weren't gay, trying so hard to live up to a certain masculine ideal. I had to see whether I could get you to feel comfortable enough around me to allow a deeper intimacy than we had previously enjoyed. You are a doctor, you understand how people can become comfortable with nudity, given the right set of circumstances. Under scientific conditions, even a situation with obvious sexual overtones could be..."

"Sherlock," interrupted John. "This, this whole thing..." The haze of post-coital contentment was beginning to dissolve, and he was beginning to feel a sense of outrage. He should have known, should have expected this. Sherlock was a master manipulator, always was, likely always would be. Fool, fool! he chided himself. He started to get up.

Sherlock leaned up, reached out, touched one shoulder. "John, please," he said. "Don't..." He bit his lip and looked as close to guilty as John had ever seen him. "Please. Sit down, and let me try to explain."

Against his better judgment, John settled back. He was aware again of his unclothed state and tried vaguely to compensate by crossing his legs and crossing his arms across his chest.

"I could not be certain that you would respond when faced with this situation. To be honest, I thought that the most likely outcome would result in no change to the status quo. I, I hoped, though. Do you not feel something for me? Is this not a relationship you would wish for yourself? For us?"

John tried and failed to steel himself against the vulnerability he saw again on Sherlock's face. He thought again about Sherlock's earlier, solitary life, and about his own. He thought about the failure of his dating life, and felt that maybe, somehow, this was where he was supposed to be -- with Sherlock, in this as in all things. He softened then, and reached up to clasp Sherlock's hand, which was resting on his shoulder.

"I do have feelings for you," John finally acknowledged. "I have, for a while. You were right, everyone was right, I was just afraid. And maybe I was right to fear. You are a dangerous man, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock's lips twitched. "As are you, Dr. Watson. Maybe, as madmen who gravitate toward danger...we belong together."

John traced Sherlock's cheek with one thumb. "Maybe."


End file.
